Paris Lights

by C. J. Duggan

  But as I studied the map before me, there was a sudden clarity, a new realisation that seemed to give me the answer without even having to make a list or think it over in any great detail. If there was one saving grace in all of this, it was my British passport, allowing me to work anywhere in Europe without a visa. How lucky was I that my mum had emigrated from England when she was a teenager? If I was going to do this, I needed more time, and all that was dependent on one small detail. I wrapped up the last of my baguette, plunged it into my bag, and sipped my coffee, before snatching up the map and heading back down Avenue Kleber, toward my hotel, to speak to Cecile.

  Chapter Six

  Something was definitely happening. Hotel Trocadéro had gone from chaos to ghost town. The reception was unmanned and even Gaston was nowhere to be seen as I slotted my umbrella back into the stand near the door. Maybe everyone had been fired, having let the neurotic, light-headed Aussie camp on the sixth floor. I have to find Cecile.

  I tapped the bell at reception and cringed. I felt bad having to stop anyone from what they had been doing. I kind of wanted to just slip seamlessly back up to my room, but until I sorted out the finer details, I wouldn’t be able to relax. If I could swing it, I wanted to stay here for a few days longer, just until I had enough courage to take the next step in my plan.

  The high-pitched ring of the bell lingered in the abandoned reception area. The staff had done well to have all the surfaces polished and shiny; the lounge area was pristine, with not a magazine, book or cushion out of place. The room was quite quirky and eclectic and despite the typical black-and-white Parisian prints on the wall, the décor was striking and vibrant. A large purple lounge was the star of the room, framed by two blood orange–coloured armchairs. A black oval coffee table divided the seating and sat on top of a black-and-white striped carpet – it was kind of like Alice in Wonderland meets Paris. An old-style typewriter propped up a selection of books on a shelf. I would certainly be happy to rest here for a while until someone appeared, but just as I was about to make myself at home on the lounge, the door into the restaurant was flung open, causing me to stand quickly. The burgundy-jacketed man I’d seen with Cecile appeared; I would have thought he was frowning at me until I realised he was sporting a monobrow that never seemed to alter his expression from looking anything other than annoyed. Despite his murderous eyes he smiled, quite genuinely, as he approached.

  ‘Can I help you, mademoiselle?’ he asked, with an air of courteous professionalism.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, I was just wondering if Cecile was available?’

  ‘I am sorry, she is in a staff meeting. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  I paused, feeling kind of funny about speaking with – I looked at his name badge: Philippe. It was ridiculous but it kind of felt like me staying on the sixth floor was a secret between me and Cecile, and that, based on the reaction of the other staff, maybe I shouldn’t have been telling anyone, especially someone in a burgundy manager’s jacket, where I was staying. The last thing I wanted was to get Cecile into trouble.

  ‘Um, no, thank you. Maybe if you could please ask Cecile to contact me once she is available?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, making his way back to reception in order to take note of my message. ‘You are a guest here at the hotel?’

  I swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your room number?’ he asked, pen poised and looking up at me expectantly.

  ‘Oh, um, can you just tell her Claire Shorten would like to speak to her. She’ll know what it’s in regards to,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, Claire Shorten,’ he said, moving to the computer and tapping in my name before I had a chance to say another word. His gaze fixed on the screen, and his monobrow dipped so low I thought he might have been able to shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs.

  ‘There seems to be some mistake: it says you are on the sixth floor,’ he said, mainly to himself.

  I shifted anxiously. I was starting to get worried. What was so horrifying about the sixth floor? Maybe someone was murdered up there and no one in their right mind would want to stay there. He looked at me, waiting for me to confirm that it was a mistake, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  ‘It was the only—’

  ‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle Shorten, I will just have a word with my colleague,’ he said rather curtly before heading back to the door that led to God knew where. My stomach churned, certain that Cecile was going to get into trouble.

  I was all but ready to go pack my bags when Philippe appeared again, the same dreaded look on his face until he reached me, only then did his face lighten in a smile, but this time it didn’t seem so genuine.

  ‘Cecile said have a good night’s rest and she will see you in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, um, I just wanted to confirm the rate of the room, just so I can—’

  ‘It will be all sorted in the morning, mademoiselle,’ he said, cutting off my words. He seemed eager to return to the staff meeting, and I was just as eager to let him.

  ‘Oh, okay, well, merci beaucoup,’ I said, heading quickly to the lift, praying that it would make the rickety journey to the sixth floor.

  Don’t do drugs, kids. But if you get dumped in Paris, by all means, pop a valium.

  Sunset saw the return of my misery, tears streaming down my face and tissues strewn about my luxury apartment as I ordered room service for dinner. More tears flowed after I called work back in London and gave notice. It went down like a lead balloon.

  My spirit was at an all-time low; it took every ounce of energy I had to Skype my mum and lie about how everything was going fine. I had known within the first two-point-five seconds of speaking to her that she was none the wiser. Besides, I doubted there would be any loved-up selfies of Liam and the pot-plant whore for a long while. In this scenario he was most definitely the bad guy, so it wasn’t like he was going to advertise our split to my family, which for now served me just fine.

  I raided my small stash of valium, reserved for flying and underwater trips via train from London to Paris, hoping it would help me sleep in my new room in my plush bed … on my own.

  By morning I was in a much better headspace after a deep, drug-induced sleep and I was ready to face the world. I wasn’t taking any chances, however. I packed my suitcase and sat it by the door. I took a sweeping look around my luxury penthouse, taking in every detail and committing it to memory. If they hadn’t found me another room, I doubted I could stay here, on the forbidden sixth floor. I sighed. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

  On my way down for breakfast I came up with a theory: I must have been staying in quarters that belonged to the owners; maybe they were out of town and my staying in their residence was a big no-no. Despite this, I was confident that Cecile would be able to point me in the right direction for alternative accommodation. But as the door to the lift opened, there was just no way of preparing for what was about to greet me.

  My heart sank so low and so fast I swear I heard it hit the polished reception floor. Cecile was sobbing, sobbing and ranting in French so quickly I could tell even those who spoke the same language were struggling to keep up. Even Philippe’s monobrow seemed concerned. Gaston was there, taking charge, escorting Cecile from reception to one of the orange chairs in the lounge, leaving Philippe to deal with a couple of confused tourists standing at the counter.

  I didn’t wait for answers, thinking that poor Cecile’s meltdown was directly linked to me. I followed them into the lounge, hoping that standing before her would block the view of the ogling breakfast guests.

  Cecile buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked Gaston, who was crouching by Cecile’s side, offering her a box of tissues.

  ‘Simone quit this morning,’ he said with a glum expression.

  I wasn’t going to lie, I was flooded with relief that the answer wasn’t, ‘Cecile has been fired for putting you up in the penthouse on the sly.’ But then
confusion set in: was Simone such a great loss? Was there some hidden, irreplaceable talent of hers I was unaware of? Because all I had witnessed was gossip and laziness. She was definitely not a team player. Maybe Cecile was just a sensitive soul.

  ‘Of all the days for her to do this. I could kill her!’ Cecile burst out angrily, grabbing violently at the tissues and blowing her nose.

  Okay, not such a sensitive soul then.

  ‘What are we going to do? Who is going to serve?’

  I turned to see the restaurant less than half full. Cathy was rearranging the fruit display with ease; I really didn’t see what the fuss was all about.

  ‘Is Simone quitting really that bad for business?’ I asked tentatively. Only yesterday the whole place had been unmanned altogether for their staff meeting – is that when all hell broke loose?

  Gaston shook his head. ‘This is the worst possible thing that could have happened. Any day but today.’

  Okay, I know I didn’t speak French, but I was having a hard time deciphering English these days. Mysterious sixth floor; Simone saying a black cloud was descending over the hotel; now she had quit, causing teary hysterics – what on earth was going on?

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, but why today of all days?’ I asked, bracing myself when both sets of eyes looked up at me in distress. Cecile’s bloodshot ones welled once more as her chin trembled.

  ‘Because, because …’ She couldn’t hold it together, she started to cry and rant in French again, burying her face in a fistful of tissues. Gaston was comforting her, rubbing her shoulders. He let out another weary sigh.

  ‘Because?’ I asked, ever so gently.

  Gaston met my eyes; his seemed to have traces of something that almost looked like fear. It was enough to make me swallow in anticipation as he worked up the nerve to speak.

  ‘Because, today he is coming,’ he said, a darkness falling over his usually bright and cheery face.

  I froze, barely able to draw breath when I pressed further. ‘Who?’

  ‘The devil; the devil is coming.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was not a time to laugh, although my instinct had been to do just that.

  ‘Sorry?’ I asked, thinking I had misheard him, but then Cecile, wiping the smudges of mascara from her cheeks, spoke.

  ‘Louis Delarue is coming to lunch.’

  They both looked at me expectantly, ready to witness my own horror register at the mention of his name. Instead, the only thing that swept across me was complete blankness.

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘This afternoon,’ she said in clear, slow English as if to emphasise the gravity of the situation.

  I nodded, still with a vacant look in my eyes.

  Cecile and Gaston looked at each other again, seeming rather disturbed by my reaction, or rather non-reaction.

  ‘You do know who Louis Delarue is?’ Cecile asked. Her sobbing had morphed into complete disbelief.

  ‘Uh, I can’t say as I do,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of a crooked smile. It didn’t work. At all.

  Gaston was aghast. ‘You do not know who Louis Delarue is?’

  ‘Nope, sorry, should I?’

  Cecile shook her head. ‘He is only one of the most renowned chefs and restaurateurs.’

  ‘He comes to failing businesses and critiques them; he can make or break livelihoods with a single look,’ added Gaston.

  ‘Oh, so he’s coming to critique the hotel?’

  ‘He is meeting with his production crew here and starting his evaluation today. We cannot afford to be down a single staff member.’

  Again I thought back to the calibre of Simone’s skills and I couldn’t help but think that her quitting could only be a good thing. And then I looked at Cecile, and her stricken, worried demeanour; she was near to having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know who this Louis character was, but I could see that his visit was important, that he could make or break the hotel, and if the likes of the foul-mouthed Simone were required to help out, then the stakes must have been high – really high.

  ‘I can help,’ I blurted.

  That got their attention. Their silence was unnerving, their shocked faces the only sign that they had heard me. Gaston slowly stood.

  ‘I’m serious. I am happy to help in any way I can. I might not be able to speak the language, but I’m guessing Simone wasn’t exactly fluent, and I worked in events management back in Australia, so I can definitely think on my feet and stay calm in a crisis, and as far as I can tell, this is a pretty big crisis.’

  Cecile stood too. She seemed afraid to hope that I was speaking the truth. ‘You would do that?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, I would have been wandering the streets of Paris, or worse still, fainting in the gutter.’

  Cecile smiled, and a glimmer of her old self was there again. ‘I was happy to help.’

  I nodded. ‘And so am I.’

  Cecile flung the kitchen door open so fast I had to stop it flinging back into my face as I followed her through.

  ‘Gather around everyone, we have a new staff member.’ Cecile beamed. If it wasn’t for her flushed cheeks, you might not have guessed that only moments before she had been a hot mess. I stood by her side, smiling at everyone who gathered – three people.

  ‘Is this everyone?’ I murmured out of the corner of my mouth, trying to be discreet but probably failing miserably.

  Cecile frowned, as if annoyed by the question. ‘Oui, this is everyone.’

  The hotel boasted forty-four warm and welcoming rooms, so at full occupancy I guess there wouldn’t be a real need for an army in the kitchen, which was probably just as well as you wouldn’t have been able to fit one in here. It was the tiniest, messiest kitchen I had ever seen. You couldn’t see a scrap of the bench, and empty boxes were piled up at the back door. My eyes moved to the open coolroom door, glimpsing a continued mess of boxes and chaos. A beanpole of a boy diced carrots on the central island. He awkwardly chopped, keeping his elbows tucked in so as not to knock into anything and he was slightly hunched so as not to bang his head on the pots hanging from the rack above.

  ‘This is Francois – he helps with the preparation and dishes and general kitchen maintenance.’

  Francois wiped his hand on his grubby apron, and offered it to me. ‘Bonjour.’ He looked at me expectantly as he shook my hand, once, twice, three times.

  ‘Oh, um, Claire, my name’s Claire.’ What I was really thinking was, what kind of maintenance had Francois been doing?

  A shorter man wearing a stained white chef’s top stirred a clear liquid on the stove; he seemed unkempt and disinterested in my presence.

  ‘This is Gaspard – he is our head chef.’

  Gaspard abandoned his duty and turned to me, giving me a moist handshake and a curt head nod.

  ‘Hello,’ I managed, feeling strangely intimidated by him.

  ‘And of course you know Cathy.’ Cecile smiled, turning to Cathy, who stood to the side, watching on with interest and very little emotion.

  None of them seemed happy I was here. I don’t know what I expected really: to walk into an industrial kitchen with big open spaces, lots of stainless-steel benches, and a conga line of people in crisp white chef’s uniforms and puffy white hats? I thought that maybe they might rejoice that help was here, that they weren’t a man down any more, and with a joint effort we could show this Louis Delarue what Hotel Trocadéro was made of. But as the reality, or rather the enormity, of the situation washed over me, I came to realise that Simone quitting, that being a man down, was the least of anyone’s problems.

  I turned to Cecile. ‘Can I have a word with you for a second?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I smiled at the team, feeling slightly awkward as I backed out of the swinging door and into the restaurant, to stand in the little alcove where excess cutlery was stored.

  ‘Cecile, when is he coming?’

  ‘He is coming for lunch.’

  ‘So, w
hat, in four hours?’ I asked, panic spiking my voice. ‘Oui, he is meeting with his counterparts to review the profile of the hotel and see if he will take it on for his show.’

  ‘His show?’

  ‘You have not heard of his show?’

  ‘I don’t even know who he is.’

  Once more, Cecile looked at me as if I was slightly mad. ‘He has a reality show called Renovation or Detonation; he goes to hotels and decides whether he can save them or not.’

  This was not good at all, because based solely on that kitchen I knew exactly what he would be inclined to do. A world-renowned chef was about to cast his perfectionist eye over Hotel Trocadéro and even though I didn’t know who he was, I was terrified for them.

  ‘Cecile, you have to put me in charge of that kitchen.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Not as cook or chef or anything, but you need to put me in there not just as a Simone replacement, which I will totally do all of what she did, but you need to put me in there to light a fire under them, because if I don’t, this Louis guy will, and you don’t want that.’

  ‘They have been cleaning all week.’

  Oh my God, they had? I visibly recoiled. If that was an improvement, I would hate to think what it had been like. I felt my stomach turning at the thought of their complimentary breakfast.

  ‘Cecile. Four. Hours.’

  I could see her finally thinking, really thinking, as though what I was saying made sense.